


Masks

by StolenVampires



Series: Masks [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gore, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sad Cowman, Slow Burn, Suffering Hanzo is my fav thing, Violence, hanzo shimada: has an opportunity to be happy, hanzo shimada: slams the door in the opportunity's face because he's a mess, literally it's embers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-22 22:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 18,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7456480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StolenVampires/pseuds/StolenVampires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles and shorts about Hanzo and fitting into Overwatch. Now a full ongoing story.</p><p>'Dragons do not trust. Dragons only serve themselves. But Foxes are clever. And Foxes know how to get what all others cannot.<br/>Storms rise above the Santa Fe, and the dragon's rolling thunder do not send the fox away. Rather it laughs and waits for the rain to fall. '</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mark

Hanzo was struggling to adapt to life at the semi-operational Gibraltar base. He had his own room which was small and had only a tiny window that faced the facility. It was two feet by three feet big and only let in light mid to late afternoon. The room itself smelled of mildew and saltwater from disuse and the bed was flush to the rear wall and could only accommodate a single body with very little room to relax properly. Barracks he'd been told. It was all they had. They were once for lower or temporary agents, and thus far, only those previously agents had the larger rooms. Only they had the small luxuries like true beds, windows that faced the ocean, the morning sunrise. 

Genji had offered his old room.  
"I don't require the bed and I don't have much."  
Hanzo hadn't taken him on the offer. He'd not even been able to give his brother an answer. 

He avoided the agents as much as he could. His only mark in the facility was that of the rice cooker he mused. He'd asked if they had any rice for breakfast and when he was told they didn't even have a rice cooker, just cereal, he had eaten a few apple slices and called that his breakfast. It had been fine, but it wasn't home. It didn't make him want to go out and face the day. The fruit tasted bland not sweet and crisp like he remembered the apples of his childhood.   
He asked Winston if a rice cooker might be provided, as well as said rice and a few other flavors from home. Winston had remarked how he'd forgotten that he hadn't bought it yet. Apparently Hana, the young woman, had also been wanting rice for her meals.

So Hanzo supposed, even the rice cooker was not even 'his' mark. Just a passing thought. It was an after thought.  
That would suit him all the same.


	2. Shame

In his room he had a few books. A few mementos. He had his sword. It was rusted into the scabbard now, dull and broken but he had it. It had been his coming of age gift from his father. It had been the blade he'd used on his brother. Yet he couldn't leave it behind in the castle he'd forsaken. It was his, and he fought back the memory of he death it caused, determined to cling to the memory of his father's face, glowing with pride as it was presented to him.

Shame was Hanzo's mark on the facility. A man who once killed his brother, who once ran a ninja clan and criminal empire. A man who still refused to acknowledge the brother who forgave him even though he'd done nothing to deserve it. 

Most of the other agents gave him his space, and Genji -Genji who had once been so loud, so vibrant and full of laughter and joy and mirth- Genji was quiet, serene, and reserved. Genji wasn't the same, and it made the wound inside Hanzo ache fiercely. Genji had deserved better of him.   
Overwatch deserved better than a shameful man like him.

A man who walked into the communal showers and kept his eyes down, afraid of what he'd see.   
Afraid of how he'd react.  
Afraid of that he'd feel something.

Perverse. Repulsive. Depraved. Corrupt.

He showered before the others in the barracks woke. He didn't want to see them. He didn't want them to see him. Few scars. Working limbs. Handsome. Healthy. Normal. It was fake. He learned that a long time ago. If he wasn't alone he had to pretend. Pretend he didn't look. Pretend he didn't want to glance at them, to wonder, to imagine. He had to swallow those feelings, those impure thoughts as a boy.   
As a man.

Hanzo was shameful, and his crimes against his brother, his family, his honor and humanity were too many to count. So he would atone in solitude. He would avoid them in silence.


	3. Eyes

He struggled. Because they refused to allow him this. They refused to grant him silence. His reclusive ways. They invited him to dinner, (he went and spoke with false sincerity). He was asked to join outings for fun, (he went but drank little, did not act unless asked to). Agents would ask him questions and tell stories, (he said he had none, that he wanted to know of them even when he did not). Hanzo crafted himself an image of civil but reclusive agent. Neither kind nor unfriendly. Simply silent and unobtrusive.

Hanzo thought it a fair trade. A fair mask for them. So how was it that one man kept looking at him? How was it one of them saw his mask and tried to peel it away when he could. It was small ways, tiny remarks and interactions that made Hanzo fear he'd faltered in his actions or words. 

Jesse McCree saw him and saw a mask, where as every other agent simply saw Hanzo.

Jesse McCree scared Hanzo -so Hanzo crafted a new mask shortly after McCree had smiled at him- eyes looking him over, like a predator sizing up prey.   
Hanzo was not going to become prey. So Hanzo would be as he'd been as and had to be once before when he had been a young man, screamed at by his father for suspicions.  
Hanzo would become cold, emotionless, and pretend to hate. His only mental blessing was unlike Genji, Hanzo wouldn't be need to kill McCree. 

He never would want to kill McCree.


	4. Partner

"Hey Partner, how's the weather down there?" His voice was loud like many American voices, and it was drawn out with a certain timber and drawl. His accent was thick and it always took a hair longer for Hanzo to parse and translate the man's words from his slang and their meanings. McCree had a way of confusing him with his sayings and expressions, often missing their context and feeling foolish as others knew when he did not. McCree embarrassed him. He mocked him and purposely sought to make him be inferior with his jokes and having Hanzo be the subject of them. It made his mask easier. It made pretending to hate him all the more believable.

"The same as it is for you. Though perhaps because your heart is so far from your head, your brain must not function properly to comprehend how weather works." Barbed remarks. Scalded words. McCree would smile with a cigar in his mouth and say it every time.

"Glad to see you're the same as ever Hanzo."

Hanzo wanted to Hate McCree.  
So how come no matter how hard he tried, he hurt inside each time he spoke barbed words? How come it made something in his chest tighter like a python's coils around his lungs?  
How come McCree made him want to take off his mask and let him see the man he was?

Hanzo couldn't hate McCree.


	5. Threats

McCree never gave up with his crass jokes. With his invites. He kept pushing. Asking. Prompting. Trying to peel away the mask he'd build around himself.  
McCree acted like he was a fool. Wise cracking. Jovial. He was the one no one took seriously. No one suspected him of being observant and tactical. Hanzo saw McCree for what he was.

A threat.

He couldn't slip up. He couldn't let the cracks in his mask show. Hanzo would have to constantly be on guard with the American. When Hanzo had learned of Blackwatch, of what they did, that McCree was a part of that? Nearly every other new agent was shocked that the cowboy had been apart of it. Hanzo wasn't. Hanzo saw perhaps better than most. McCree was clever, wearing his own mask but showing his skill to those who knew what to look for. He was the kind of man Hanzo would have once valued as a Shimada. But he wasn't a Shimada. Not anymore. He had no right to that name, no want of that legacy any longer. 

McCree was smarter than he appeared, more driven than he let on, and worst of all?

The man was perhaps more wolf among sheep than anyone else realized.


	6. Scar

"Woah there, got some place to be? It's not even past sunrise." It had been a tactical error. He'd woken later than normal and wanted to spend some extra time in the showers, letting hot water sooth sore and aching muscles from the mission from the previous night. No wounds, but pains of waiting, of anxiety, of adrenaline and the heady mix of focus and fear.   
The thrill of the kill.

Hanzo was schooled in his expression when he loosed his arrows, kept the image of unattached hunter and killer when they were on the field. Yet upon return he wanted to relax, to let those emotions flow like water and wash away down the drain and let each drop kiss his skin in a false comfort for touches he could not have.

He was damp from his shower, hair clinging to his skin and he could feel it starting to chill, small patches of gooseflesh forming as he stood, head down as McCree watched in silent observation. 

Skin to skin, innocent mistake. He'd run into the taller, (he had hair on his chest, fine and wiry. The same honey brown; he smelled like sweat and smoke.), man.   
"My apologies, I did not know you wished to use the facility." He kept his gaze averted, moving with memorized actions to the locker he always chose and reaching in for his things. He felt more than naked. Exposed. Vulnerable.   
Like prey.

"It an't no thing. We all have to make do with the shared space till Winston gets us all rooms proper." Hanzo froze and mentally cursed himself for it. McCree was not fool, and he was making sure Hanzo knew that it was bait. That this encounter had been planned. McCree had his own room, his own bathing area.   
There was no reason for him to be using the communal showers.

"So why are you here?" Hanzo would recover from that moment. He'd play to rage and annoyance, to anger and frustration.  
Yet the eyes of the cowboy were darker with a knowledge that made Hanzo's blood run cold.  
"You're a mighty curious man partner. Avoiding the team." A step forward, Hanzo felt his muscles coil tighter.   
"You go out of your way to avoid us." The sound of bare feet on tile got louder as McCree closed the space between them and Hanzo tried to focus on getting dressed, yet didn't want to move. To expose himself.  
"You won't look me in the eyes. Not even on missions." The man was right next to him, the faint scent of him make things in Hanzo's gut tighten and tremble inside. The shadow of McCree loomed over him as he leaned on the lockers, trying to look at Hanzo's face.  
"You're hiding something from us. From me, and I don't appreciate that much."  
Hanzo couldn't do this.   
Not here. Not now.

"Not all of us have the luxury to be so free with ourselves Jesse." His name like a curse. True anger and rage and shame. He felt the mask slip away and saw he'd been caught in McCree's snare. Eyes widening slightly, pupils dilating, lips parting to draw in measured breath, (hot against his skin, smelling of mint and tobacco). McCree saw him, mask removed, and Hanzo feared what the man saw. 

Hanzo fled like the hare who's scent had been caught by the wolf.

By the time he got back to his room, he could feel his body burning from the inside. His eyes had seen. He couldn't escape the thoughts as they came like vipers, slithering over his mind like phantoms, fangs ready to strike with salacious thoughts, depraved, disgusting, perverse.   
Trembling in his room, bare save for the towel around his waist, his belongings in his arms, Hanzo tried to steady himself against the wall, fighting his reactions, his frantic heartbeat.

McCree had a scar along his left hip that ran down towards his inner thigh.

Hanzo couldn't ignore that single scar and how it looked against golden hued skin. Pale and old. Rough, thick and bare to him- a human wound on man who's entire body had been so brazenly on display. Hanzo could have seen anything.

Yet his mind kept wondering.

What would it feel like, to run his fingers over that scar. 

For the first time in many years, Hanzo felt truly afraid for himself.


	7. Wolf

Avoidance was something Hanzo had perfected as a youth. His father's stern gaze. His mother's snide remarks. The clan's wants and desires. When he gave in? It was akin to swallowing sand and ash.

He didn't like giving in. He gave in once-

One mistake had cost him everything. His brother. His clan. His home. His future. His everything.   
He'd not make the same mistake twice. He'd never give into other again. He'd not let his mask slip again. 

After the night in the showers, his thoughts drifted. They had been polluted. His days were agony. Jesse McCree acted like it had never happened, and his only mention of it was a   
"Sorry about the other night Shimada-san." His surname. Formal.  
"Won't bother you none."

It was just what Hanzo had wanted wasn't it? To be left alone? So why then did he steal glances at the man, pretending to be furious? Why did he want Jesse to look at him? Why did it bother him so much?

Hanzo found himself avoiding, and it didn't go entirely unnoticed. Genji noticed. The small ways that his brother took note and did what he thought would help.  
But Genji couldn't help. Genji was dead. Hanzo had no right to call Genji his brother not anymore. Despite his soul that screamed at him to go, to find him, to say a million things that were simply left unsaid.   
Tea, a special green that their nanny had given them when they had been growing up, was made and presented to him in the form of an empty cup and a pot of hot water at the precise temperature. It sat on the table inside the firing range with no note. No message. It just sat waiting for him.   
It was warm and made tension roll off his back like a caress of silk. 

Genji was dead he reminded himself. The only comfort he had was from ghosts now. 

The tea tasted sweet as he remembered. Five cups. Exactly five cups later Hanzo was calmer. Almost relaxed. Yet the clink of metal, the gentle swish of fabric down the hall. The sound of leather rubbing against leather. 

He looked up, eyes prying at the door, wanting to see past it. A dull click of his cup to the table, the sound of hinges moving as the door opened and Jesse looked around the room for a moment. Eyes met, and he was frozen, looking at him and he was watched in turn. 

Hanzo felt his muscles tense, the same way they did in training. React. Be coiled, ready to spring. Trap them with your ferocity, stun them with swiftness of your strikes. Give them no time to relax, to react. Overwhelm them so-  
"Evenin'." His voice was light and cheerful, his smile wide and his hand pulling down the brim of his hat, eyes going from those of a predator to those of a domesticated dog in what felt like the briefest of heartbeats.   
"Didn't think nobody would be out on the range this late." Jesse stole away Hanzo's breath. Cut the coils, and made the ninja unnerved. He'd been beaten. Jesse had reacted faster, leaving Hanzo the one vulnerable. 

It tasted bitter now on his tongue, and he didn't think he could finish the remnants of the tea.

"It is imperative to practice when the opportunity arises." His storm bow was lifted from it's place, grip tighter, the quiver loaded on his back. Jesse kept looking at him, moving to accommodate and watch with curiosity.   
"Which station you want? I prefer number six." The first station was the far end of the target hall. 8th was by the exit. Hanzo spoke before he realized his mistake in choosing what he wanted over what was regular.  
"Eight." Jesse blinked, walking past him and picking up spare rounds and setting up the training bots.  
"No problems then." He was so normal about this, calm while Hanzo felt like a cornered hare. Jesse had trained ith him before, and Hanzo had always until that moment chosen the furthest station. Away from the door. Away from anyone. Jesse would know the change. Hanzo had cracked again. Hyper alert, all too aware of his own movements; Hanzo was left reeling in knowing that the domesticated dog under the hat and serape, (that smelled of tabacco and red earth, the rough wool that brushed his forearm as he walked by to get the blanks), Jesse McCree was every inch a wild a wolf. Untamable, unpredictable. 

_No._

As Jesse loaded his gun, focused on letting himself be watched as he moved, as he allowed Hanzo to watch him, scrutinize him, analyze him, Hanzo felt a knot of fear deepen in his gut.  
A wolf was shy, they ran in packs and worked together. They took down large prey as one. They were not wholly opportunistic hunters. They were a family unit. They avoided people and would flee at the signs of danger before they would attack.

BANG

The revolver spun for a fresh bullet, and Hanzo didn't need to know where Jesse had hit his target. 

Jesse was not a wolf. He was more than a wolf. His focus was clear as daylight, the white halogen lights reflecting off the metal of the counter top into his eyes as they looked forward, unyielding at the targets. He was clever, mischievous, ruthless and opportunistic. He could change what mask he wore at the drop of a hat before casting a new illusion over a situation. Before he was caught. Evasive, ruthless in his pursuit of his prey. 

Hanzo forced himself to look away, to notch his bow and begin loosing arrows on the training bots. Each one taken down with cold precision while heat pooled in his belly around that stone of cold fear.

Jesse McCree was not the wolf Hanzo had thought him to be.   
He was a fox, and to him, Hanzo had become the hare.


	8. Illusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta still.  
> idk im going a bit free form and this marks first chapter where things get ~steamy~ but not steamy like idk bruh where u draw the line in the sand

The dream was red hot like the desert they had been sent to so many months ago. Red stone, yellow roads and dust that danced in circles. Balls of twigs and debris that jumped along the road, carried by wind as if ushered along like travelers across the vast expanse of barren land.

Green yellow plants that dotted the distance, Hanzo remembered the feeling of heat on the back of his neck, the sweat running down his back and legs and the fan that cooled his face yet was too weak to circulate the air and reach the rest of him. Inside that metal box they called a van, strapped in, strapped down, he was forced to sit and wait for orders. To restrain his need for blood. Revenge. Sating his honor in the lives of those that had once been his people.  
Shimada.

Shimada

Shi  
Ma  
Da

His name spoken so slowly in that deep honey sweet drawl that made him ache.  
(What sounds would _he_ make in the late night? What would his name sound like spoken in the deep breathy sigh he had- the same tone of longing and adoration he had when he whispered things in Spanish when he thought no one could hear him?)

In the van, the click of the seatbelt was undone and they exited, skin sticking to fake leather before pulling away like tape, the muffled sound of others and the silence of wordless communication. A hum and buzz of electronic earpieces, of signals in the air for news that would float in his brain. Distracting him from the mission.

There on the roof- two men, eating what looked like tamales. They had guns designed to kill. Large, fast, but clunky. Slow in the hands of inexperience.

Two arrows. Two souls to sate the dragon. Two beautiful ribbons of red that flew into the air and danced in the hot wind.

A third guard on a nearby rooftop. Circling the corner. Eyes widening as a third arrow flew into the hot sunlight. Another ribbon of red sent to the sky like an offering to the gods. Another soul to appease the dragon that howled for more.

Down into the building, the others delayed, told to wait, but the dragon does not wait. the dragon hungers. The dragon feeds on the screams, the fear in their eyes.  
Four arrows. Four more ribbons of crimson, scarlet, rogue, red. They spin and spiral and dance along the dirty floor.  
Six ribbons. Thin and lace like. They carry with them small orbs of brilliant hue to dot the room. They dance and scatter at _his_ feet.  
(His footwork is a dance. Light and nimble, the bullets fly past him like silver kisses from lovers he will not name. They crash into the wall, into windows. Glass shatters and reflects the light into a world of stars in the dimly lit building.)

 

Shouts from all around, the flash of light that sends pain into their targets. Opportunistic, he fires.  
Three arrows. Three bullets. Lace and ribbon intertwine. They dance for what feels like hours. Men fall at their feet as if in worship. The dragon howls triumphant. In his ear the buzz of fury, of plan astray. Reckless. Headstrong. 

The dragon doesn't care. It did was it came to do. But the dragon is not alone. By his side is a fox. Orange and red and gold. Sunlight in his fur, in it's smile. It is warm to the touch as it circle him, urging him down a hallway, towards the others. But Hanzo is a dragon, and dragons are not goaded where they do not wish to be.

The fox presses harder, hands pulling, eyes begging. Honey sweet words tumble from lips. Knowing eyes bore into his soul and Hanzo smells tobacco and gunsmoke. Ribbons and lace cover him, bind him, and the fox laughs. Deep, from his belly to his chest and it tumbles from lips like water. Clear and refreshing. The fox is as much as predator as he. The fox is clever and sees no point to tout it's kills. It is happy to be unnoticed. It relishes being sunlight trapped in skin. In rough wool and worn leather. In the mask of an era left in history books. 

The red ribbons bind him, the dragon wants more. It wants to finish the others half a world away. But the fox has wrapped him in chains of red lace. In his own dance. The more Hanzo struggles, the softer, kinder the fox smiles as if it knew this would be the outcome all along.

Yet the dragon enjoys the heat of fox's body. It wants to touch, to caress. To be bound and captive. It yearns for more than ribbons and lace of red. It wants sunlight kissed skin. It wants honey sweet words to roll down it's throat. It wants the clear cool laughter of the fox against him. It wants the taste of the fox's flesh. It wants the fox's desert heat. To be slain by the clever fox.  
Devoured, to fall and be caught and become prey.

Hanzo is in his bed there in the vast expanse of the Mojave, grunting as he ruts into the willing body of another. The fox smiles at him. His name falls from lips he wants to taste.  
He chants the fox's name into the heat of the sun. 

The dragon howls in triumph as it is sated by more than blood and souls.

 

When Hanzo wakes, the crusty dry residue of his release coats the waistband of his briefs. Sweat covers his body and the smell of him, of sex dominates his senses though he is alone, the scent of sex is that of only his body, his flesh.  
He is alone, and yet all he can think of is the fox down the hall.  
All he can think of his Jesse McCree, and the smile he had that first time they had a mission together.


	9. Sorrow

Heavy breaths made it harder to focus as they pushed against each other. The small confines of the carrier that was crammed full of supplies and two large men attempting to bear the sweltering heat of the Mediterranean summer was doing nothing for Hanzo. It was the only way to sneak them into the country unnoticed, and the supplies were not of anything special. No, just the usual. Illegal arms and maybe drugs. Actually, it was a lot of drugs. What was worse perhaps was knowing who was responsible for a large portion of it seeing the large lettering in stylized kanji.

If McCree knew, he said nothing, only grunted and pushed his back against Hanzo's own once more. Long legs twisting and trying to maybe force a semi-comfortable position. Winston hadn't known of the drugs, just the weapons, but if he had, Hanzo guessed the mission was the same. Infiltrate, track, and neutralize. A polite way of saying get the cargo and kill whoever was supposed to pick it up. Hanzo hadn't wanted to be paired with McCree. He loathed the idea of it, but it was tactically sound. It was logical. McCree when he needed to be, could hide in plain sight. Dress down to match a civilian once he removed his hat and serape. Cut down his wildly unkempt beard and bathed. 

(Sandalwood and musk. The scent of desert dust lingered on his skin and Hanzo could only catch it when McCree leaned too close, so close they might touch and brush bodies.)

McCree had pretended to be a civilian agent for the buyer party, allowing him time to set the carrier for Hanzo to sneak in later undetected. The cover of daylight, when no one watched. When they didn't think to station guards at watchtowers. To hide in shadows cast by sunlight. Unconventional. Clever.  
McCree's idea.  
McCree's sweet southern smile was watched at a distance during the dealings, when he spoke Italian to the man who was selling. Accent was off, but he played them a fool. McCree didn't know a lick of Italian, but his ability to relay word for word what he had to say was uncanny. The men who had let him look at the cache had been pulled in by McCree's illusion. Blinded by a song and dance where McCree lead with a smile was warm as the summer sun and as saccharine as the local liquor. The same liquor that he held up in a small glass bottle to Hanzo now as they lay hidden, waiting, sweat glossing his brow and eyes half lidded.

(Seductive without intent. He tilted his head back, the vein in his neck bulging and Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed and licked dry lips. Hanzo wondered what it would feel like, the throat under his tongue? In his teeth?)

"Take a drink. It's another hour and it's cold." He said, voice lower as he mentioned the temperature of the drink. Hanzo glared at him, reaching over his side to take the bottle, (fingers brushed each other, dots of heated flesh against cool glass).  
"How much water is left?" Hanzo began work opening the small bottle as McCree licked his lips again. Hanzo could hear the wet smack of the flesh and open of his jaw.

"Reckon half. Still cold. Mei's thermal bag doing wonders. Just wish she'd have given us that bot of her's."  
Hanzo scoffed.  
"It would freeze us." The cap of the small liquor bottle broke, and Hanzo could smell the scent of lemon and alcohol.  
"Better than becoming a pair of honey baked hams." Hanzo grunted as he shifted, his back hurting from inability to stand upright in the crate yet. Stay low, stay hidden.  
The drink tasted sweet and like cold fire, warming him yet chilling him from the inside all at once.

The sound he made had McCree stiffen, and Hanzo shuddered as he let the alcohol roll through him. A moan, loud and wanting. A sound of primal satisfaction, Hanzo felt no shame. The drink was refreshing, but, he felt McCree stiffen.

Something was amiss. 

McCree spoke first.  
"Take it you liked it then?" it was playful, curious. Teasing. Hanzo reacted. He knew this game. McCree would bait, and he would defend. Back and forth, like children they would banter yet-  
"It was of acceptable quality and anything cold is appreciated at this point."  
"Anything eh? Like your attitude." The first barb, McCree turned his head to face him, smirking. Hanzo narrowed his gaze yet didn't look away.  
"Would you prefer I pretend to find you palatable?" He shot back.

The smile McCree had was no longer friendly. It was calculating and cruel. It was targeted and McCree let him see it before he turned from Hanzo's gaze.  
"I reckon you do, 'jus don't want to admit it." Hanzo flinched involuntarily jaw tightening.  
"I abhor you Jesse McCree."  
There was a dull silence, and it pervaded the next twenty minutes.

Then?  
The scent of tea. Green and jasmine. A hint of honey. The scent of home. Hanzo had heard the flask Mei had given them open, and the offending source of the scent was passed over his shoulder by a mechanical arm. 

"You're a good liar Shimada-san." That drawl of his name, he could hear how McCree was careful in choosing his timber, his tone. McCree was up to something.  
"But I figure I'm too good a liar to pretend I'm fool for 'em." Admission, opportunity. McCree was saying a truth that went unspoken between them. They knew each other as a threat, and like dogs they circled each other waiting for one another to show weakness so they might strike.

And now McCree was offering him a gift, and an opportunity to be exposed in having exposed himself in a fraction of the depth of his knowledge. A gift Hanzo met halfway.

"Is there a reason you persist in insulting me?" Hanzo accused, avoiding the opening of himself. Admit nothing. Give no tells.  
Still, he took the tea, cool metal fingers brushing all too hot skin.  
A deep breath, he felt the cool metal behind his neck, set between them like they might rest upon it back to back, but Hanzo knew it would have been uncomfortable for McCree. It was his arm. It was against his neck. Cooling his skin. Brushing away strands of hair that stuck to him and made a shiver race down his spine.

(To have that hand in other places, to guide it where it was burning and he needed the most relief.) 

"Being the way we are an't an insult Hanzo." His name a caress. Spoken like McCree was pleading for something, as if the man wanted Hanzo to stop pretending to stop lying when they both knew he couldn't.  
"What are you implying?" He hissed, angry, fear coming back, that cold stone in his gut and heavy.  
"That maybe you aren't the only one who hates himself for what he is." Frozen blood. Hot air. The sound of their heavy breathing as time ticked by while they waited for the time when they would spring and ambush the smugglers.

"I don't hate you for who you are."  
Fear and rage and hope and anguish and loathing and why now why on a mission why him in this space at this time why-

The cool arm was removed from his neck, and McCree pulled his body forward so they no longer touched.

Later, Hanzo would scream in battle, unleashing his fury on every one of their targets, sending each one to their deaths. It would be a mission where Hanzo's kill count would be used to justify his bloodlust persona, his ruthlessness. Yet in days to come, he would hear his brother's voice from down the hall as he spoke to those who did not know him. Did not know Hanzo Shimada.

It was not his anger, rage, or bloodlust they saw in battle and body count that mission.  
It was his guilt, his shame, and his worst of all?

His sorrow.


	10. Devour

They hadn't spoken since the mission. To McCree's credit, he'd not avoided Hanzo so much as given the man some much needed space. They sat at their places for meals, trained in the same space, moved like partners on the field missions that scattered their days apart from normality. McCree gave Hanzo space and solitude. Something had changed that day in the cargo hold, when the sun had burned and the taste of cold lemon alcohol had warmed that ice in his veins when he heard the implication the admission. Hanzo wanted to believe that he wasn't wrong. That McCree had been open, honest. That the fox had no reason to provide that sort of illusion.

But a dragon once tricked would not allow itself to be tricked again.

How long ago had Hanzo thought he might have found sympathy in the arms of another? Understanding? Genji had been free with so many things, tolerated for his indiscretions. His nature, as it had been called. Genji was allowed to be.  
Hanzo was forbidden to stray from his path.

Satya would have said that Hanzo was right for following the path before him, he mused as he watched the other agents train in the mock escort bay. But, from what he knew of the Vishkar woman, she'd also call him a fool for allowing himself to be manipulated into doing what had ultimately harmed thousand. She was self righteous, but she did not wish ill upon others.  
He did.  
Again and again, Hanzo knew he was stuck in the same cycle he had perpetuated as a Shimada. Hurt those who hurt you. Deny them happiness. If you cannot have what they have, take it from them. A culture of envy, jealousy and fear. It had been drilled into him. He had tried to fight it. To do good. Be a dutiful son. Be a kind man. Be an honorable man. But his clan twisted it, always. He had been born for the clan. His purpose was to serve the clan. To continue the legacy.

It was why his mother looked at him like one would look at something shameful. She bore him not from love but from a duty to his father. It was why she slept with another man. Why she cursed him, Genji, their father when she was drunk and thought no one would hear her slurred remarks. Hanzo had been young, but not foolish, not stupid. It was why his mother had laughed bitterly at her own execution threat should she be caught. Telling him he was going to end up like his father. Nothing more than a weapon for others to use to further their own riches and glory. 

She had been caught with her paramour.

No honor. Just a bullet in her skull, the red stain on brown leather in the backseat of a car, and a headline that blamed a rival clan.  
Genji had cried and confessed he loved her, and had just wanted her to be happy, to be happy for them. Not him, but them. Hanzo never told Genji about their mother's hate, her ramblings, how what she did was abuse. Back then, Hanzo had held his brother as the younger sobbed, wanting to understand their mother and why she'd been so bitter, so envious of her sons who could dictate their lives still, who were allowed more freedoms than she'd ever have. 

Hanzo's mother had laughed when told she'd die if she tried to be free.  
Genji had faced death and begged to Hanzo's heart, to understand. To fight back. But in the end, Hanzo had killed him. Hanzo hadn't fought back. He'd been used. A tool for the clan. Lead his whole life to fill a role that tasted like copper and acid. 

Blood was a disgusting taste on the tongue.

Yet it was what he tasted after he was found with someone the clan found undesirable for it's heir. He was young. He had let his heart dictate his want, allowed his dragon to possess something free of the clan. The kiss had been electric and sent fire to his belly, made his world seem endless, gold glittered at the edges of his vision when they held hands when no one looked.

But then someone saw. Whispers traveled on swift winds, and that night the taste of blood filled his mouth as he was told his role, a warning.

He never held those warm hands again. The one person who'd made him see the world golden and pure and free and so full of endless possibilities was gone. Away. Transferred. Years later he'd find out that he was killed by disease. The one so synonymous to that which Hanzo said he was not.

Yet when he'd uncovered the news he wept behind closed doors. Those warm hands were cold now. Cold and buried in a grave he had no right to visit. Hanzo's hands had felt cold since. 

At the base, he could feel the ghost of warmth just out of reach. His past haunted his mind only. He knew that. He had made sure of it. Made sure that Shimada was nothing more than a memory of fear. A legacy ruined from the inside out. Rotten and weak and crippled. Here in overwatch he was free. He could reach out, feel that warmth. Hold it in his hands. 

The dragon craved to feel the fur of the fox under it's claws.

But the dragon had been tricked once to thinking that such things were free.

Nothing was free. Such feelings were wrong. 

His hands didn't deserve the warmth of the fox. No matter how it smiled when he looked at him. No matter how it made the sky seem golden and glittering and so full of hope and promise and the thought that maybe, he could have what he longed for. But he couldn't trust it. He'd trusted once and it hand ended with lives ruined. His fate spelled out for him on his skin under the hand of his father.

"Shimada-san?" The fox asked permission to approach him. It had been a week of silence. Of only passing greetings. False civility and obligation for social integration.  
"Hey, I- I wanted.. to talk." The words spilled so easily from his lips. The fox was meek, red serape drawn tight over his shoulders and eyes creased with concern and worry and fear. The dragon looked away, afraid the fox would see his gaze and know the longing in him. The want to say a dozen things, ask a million things.  
"If I made it awkward? I'm sorry." It was clipped. the dragon could tell even with the language barrier. Pain, control, measured emotion fraying as time wore into the silence between them.

"I thought you were just.. I thought maybe you were like me but you're not an- I want you to know that I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that. Wasn't right of me." The fox took a step closer and the dragon kept his mask up. Emotionless, eyes meeting eyes. Honey to molten bronze. One was void of it's heart. The other was laying it's heart bare to the dragon.

Dragons consume. Sacrifices are meaningless before dragons. Dragons have no use for hearts. For weaknesses.

"Please, jus'- I won't ever say nothin again. Do nothin. Just- talk to me, work with me. We worked well together on the missions. You were, are, the best damn partner I've had in years. An't nobody can fight like you can. I don't want shit I said to ruin that." The fox was begging, belly up. It was warm, burning hot next to the fox, and the smell of dust, smoke, his musk. The desert sun, the feeling of stone under his hand as they might lay surrounded by cacti and brush and just be. A dream. It was so close. He could reach out. Touch it. Grasp it and it's heat. He could hold fire given form with the fox's smile to fill his days.

_Dreams had to die somewhere._

"On missions I will do what is needed." Dragons devoured sacrifices. Hanzo spoke cold and precise as he'd been taught to.

The fox withered as it's heart was devoured.

 

"But you will **never** be anything to me Jesse McCree."  
Dragons tricked once never forgot.  
"You can **never** be anything to me." 

The fox backed away, head down. A small pained sound escaping him as he walked away, the heat gone, the glittering world crashing around Hanzo as the world returned to what it had been before.

Cold, his hands as empty as they had been since that day his father had struck him and taught him why love had no place in a dragon's life.


	11. Worth

Hot angry tears ran down his face as he tasted nothing anymore. The gourd was empty and nothing felt warm. The world had for how long had held that glittering gold of the Santa Fe sun at the edges of his vision? How long had he imagined a world of light and warmth? How close had he been to holding sunlight and fire and fur in his hands? Reds and gold and browns and soft skin and rough hair and a laugh that came deep from _his_ belly and filled an entire room? 

How long had he looked forward to mornings that smells of pancakes and fried meat? To cigar smoke and desert dust that lingered on rough wool that would brush his bare arms as they'd fill the small path to and from the table to the dishes made for everyone. The coffee made too strong and tea just a hair steeped too long because no one had taught the fox any better. As Hanzo looked up at the night sky so empty of stars, the light of the city tainting it's purity, the dragon couldn't hold back the silent sobs that shook his body.

Shameful.  
Weak.

Scales fell away under the few twinkling stars and floating satellites that circles in space. Mortal men wept. Mortal men wanted mortal love. They wanted joy. Hope. Happiness. They wanted to love. To feel love and warmth and try to find their peace. 

He craved it. It was so close. He could taste the smoke on his tongue. The lemon liquor cold and sweet as it burned down his throat. The gentle weight of a body pressed to his own, someone leaning on him, resting on him. Yet he pushed the fox away. Scorned the fox. The fox had come time and time again. Smiling. Warm and bright.

Then the fox had offered him something. A part of itself.  
The fox wore it's heart on it's sleeve.  
The dragon had devoured it and spat it back as if it tasted vile. A poison. But the truth was that it was too sweet. Too pure for the dragon's maw. Rancid. Cold. Impure and disgusting. The dragon was ugly and was unfit for the fox's heart. Dragons craved and wanted what they could not have.

So all that was left was now a mortal man, scales fallen away as the man tried to pick up it's skin, put it on in drunken sorrow. But the man twisted on himself.

Vomit came up in loud heaving sounds. The man was just as sick as the dragon inside him. They were sick. In the body.  
In the head.

Fists pounded rock as Hanzo hated it all. His tears over the fact he wanted to deny his feelings, his heart's desires. His sorrow and anguish.

He could.  
But he was afraid.  
He had loved so many times.

He loved his mother and she'd scorned him, hurt him and showed him his worth.  
He loved the boy from another class, and that boy had become a man killed by something no one wanted to save him from because he had loved other men.  
He loved his father and he had shown him how he would never be anything without the clan and could never give into his heart.  
He loved his brother and he'd killed him for the sake of the clan.  
The clan he loved that had used him and cast him aside when he showed remorse over his actions>

Hanzo had loved like all dragons loved.

Fiercely.  
Passionately.  
Whole heartedly. 

Somewhere, he'd fallen in love with Jesse McCree. 

He loved the way Jesse spoke, words drawn out in that insufferable accent that made his English so difficult to parse.  
Hanzo loved those insipid sayings and slang that kept him up at night looking up the meanings of.  
He loved how he laughed at the smallest things and shared his joy with any who were lacking.  
He loved the man's fiery independence. The challenging tone, unafraid to question the missions or purpose.  
Jesse cared so much about others it consumed him. It made the missions safer. Eyes always on others. Looking out for innocents. For civilians and wanting to let them live peaceful lives.  
Jesse was so damn resourceful. He always had a mental list of peoples needs, and when he cooked he always made sure everyone had a portion. No one was left out and if they didn't show he kept their dish in the fridge just in case.  
Hanzo loved the way he smiled, how it crinkled his eyelids and made his lips turn up and pull that dang cigarillo to the side.  
Hanzo loved he gentle he was with the younger recruits. Understanding the terrors of war, of death. He comforted them. All of them.  
Hanzo held his arms around him as he sobbed to the open air.

He loved Jesse McCree.

And Jesse could never know.  
Because Hanzo was not the dragon etched on his skin. He was not the dragon that others saw.

He was the dragon that was worthless, weak and beyond saving. He'd fallen. Fallen to sorrow and shame and dishonor and he'd never be worthy of someone like Jesse. 

The fox deserved a love better than a broken dragon.  
The fox deserved better than Hanzo Shimada.  
Jesse deserved a man better than the one who lied to his face. 

Howling into the sky, no one would find him. No one would know of the dragon's screams sent to the heavens that cursed him to this life. To this love.  
No one would ever see a dragon suffering.  
It was one more shame Hanzo would suffer, because he deserved it for all he was.  
Because while dragons can love?

_"They can never love other men"._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta but looking for one please to contact like jesus CHRist so many edits help


	12. Kitsune

When dawn came, Hanzo resumed his routine as he'd done since he'd come to the base.

 

The mask of the dragon was in it's place.

 

Cold.

Precise.

Controlled.

 

When the fox came around the corner, the sun shining on red wool,  gold skin and brown hair, the dragon looked upon it and sneered.

 

Foxes were supposed to be clever. But after tasting the heart of the fox, all that the dragon could think was how foolish foxes really were to think it could trick a dragon to trusting it. The fox was not so clever to think it could cast it's illusions and get what it wanted.

 

The kitsune had offered the sacrifice of it's own heart. But what use did dragons have for the heart of a trickster? A beast that lied and had no more power than creating illusions around itself?

 

The Dragon looked at the Kitsune and walked away.


	13. Brother

Dragons are not social beings.

But Dragons are not solitary. Not really. They craved companionship. Life. They wanted to be surrounded by others. Yet Hanzo isolated himself. Weeks passed. Silence in gatherings with only minor talks. Mundane inquiries. Gentle questions about him. His enjoyments. His past that was no covered in blood. If any knew of what had transpired between fox and dragon none spoke of it.  
That did not however, mean that it was unnoticed. 

When the fox saw him, it fled. It hid from him at social gatherings. Out of direct sight. They only spoke pre, during and post mission. Precise, to the point. They got their work done but the fox said nothing to him. No compliments. No more invites to gatherings. No more laughter and smiles sent his way. If any saw they did not speak of it.

Speaking was to make it a problem.  
And dragons did not always speak in words.

Green lights burned through the darkness of the training hall. A figure in white their form highlighted in a color that haunted Hanzo's thoughts on so many nights next to reds, golds, and browns.  
Dragons did not speak in words.

They spoke in actions. Claws out, blades drawn, roaring in fury as they launched themselves at their prey and Hanzo was forced to duck and roll to evade the sudden attack. His storm bow was not a blade, but it was his weapon. The sound of metal on metal, of one dragon's rage howling at him while he defended himself.  
This was not Hanamura. 

The dragon that had come for him then was not the same one that was spitting at him in their native tongue.   
"Why do you cling to it?" The voice was marred by synthetic vocals but it was the same one he did not want to hear. To face. Hanzo had come to practice as he always had done, and to fight, much less face another dragon's might and fury so unexpectedly.

"What are you talking about?" He hissed, kicking out, watching the dragon move gracefully away from his blow. Gods above, he had always been the better of them dueling. Yet as the green dragon stormed at him again, blade coming down hard enough to send vibrations down his bow and into his arm, Hanzo felt it.  
A twinge of fear. 

Genji had not fought him all those years ago. When he'd come for him at Hanamura, it had not been a true battle.  
But now Hanzo felt a pang of fear in his belly. He should have known. Genji would never forgive him for what he'd done. This was what he should have expected. This was what he deserved. To face his brother a final time. To face vengance.

"It's been years Hanzo. Yet still, still, you act just the same!" Another blow, his bow shook from the impact and Hanzo realized that unless he had a blade, he would not survive this encounter. Shame, guilt, remorse he felt yes. But he was not going to allow himself to be slain. No, his punishment, his brother's venegence would be won honorably. In a true battle.

"You spout nonsense!" Hanzo was forced to hit Genji in the side of his head with his storm bow before he tossed it to the side, running to the weapon's wall and removing one of the swords from it's sheath. It was not yet dull.

It would still cut.

" You act like this is the clan and you have to live up to something that doesn't exist anymore! You keep forcing everyone out!" Pain was in that voice, and Hanzo hesitated. His grip was weaker. Genji's blade got his arm, an angry red line grazed the upper bicep and Hanzo hissed in pain as blood poured down quickly to stain the floor.

Vaguely, he could hear the voice of Athena, telling them to desist.  
"No, this is between us. No one will die. I won't let him have the satisfaction of staining my sword." It was a cold punch to his gut.   
So that was his brother's plan? Inflict the same as he'd suffered? No, Hanzo would not be reduced to that. He'd die first.

"My life is not your's to dictate. You have no right to-"  
"I have every right! The clan took just as much from me as it did you. It killed you year after year. I thought bringing you here might help you but I was wrong!" There was so much pain in his voice. So much sadness. Hanzo hated it. How it made his heart seize up, made him remember when they had been younger, and wept wanting to be free and being denied. Being told that they had to be something else than just Hanzo and Genji. 

"This isn't the clan!" Another blow that shook down his arm. His eyes were focused on the shimmering green light on white. Dragons ran under metal and skin.   
"You don't have to fight them! You don't have to pretend! To push them out! You don't have to be alone anymore brother!" Blow after blow.

His arms shook. Fear rose each strike. Green light glittered, scales ripped over metal.

"I hoped you could be free- That you could- That we-" The blows came again again, but they began to weaken. The voice trembled.

"I want my brother back!" The dragon screamed.

It was not a roar. It was a scream. The green dragon soared up into the sky as Genji fell to his knees reaching up to toss away his mask, looking at Hanzo.

His brother's face. Scarred. But it was his face. Twisted in sadness, in anger, eye glittering as tears ran down until they began to roll down metal plating at his jaw.

"I just want you back brother. I'm tired. I'm so tired. I thought if you joined, you'd heal, have purpose and maybe it would help. I just-" He sobbed and Hanzo felt the air leave his lungs.

"I miss you." Hanzo didn't let go of the sword.  
"Please Hanzo. Please. I miss you so much." There wasn't a man in front of the dragon anymore.

There was a boy. His clothes dirty from a beating. His lip swollen from a fist hitting him and blood running from a cut on his face where their father's ring had caught his cheek.   
He was crying at his door, looking at him, wanting so badly to be safe. To not be hurt for simply being who he was.

Hanzo remembered the memory's ending.

He'd closed the door. Walked back to his studies and resumed them, ignoring the wailing and fists pounding at his door, begging him to just open up. To not be like them.

Hands let go of leather and metal.  
They wrapped around that boy as Hanzo felt hot tears run down his face.

This was crueler than any blade's cut.

"I'm sorry." He started to shake. He'd ruined so much. He didn't deserve happiness. He didn't deserve to be forgiven. He was twisted. Broken. Sick in the head. Weak. 

"I'm here Genji. I'm here." His hand came up, running over where hair should have been.  
"I'm sorry. I'm here." Genji's cries echoed in the training hall as Hanzo held his brother for the first time in years.

"I'm here now."

Dragons are not social beings.

But Dragons are not solitary. They have families. They have hearts.   
Hanzo wanted so badly to have a heart again, his family again. The dragon wanted so much. It hurt deep inside him as he let himself have something again. As he allowed weakness. As he embraced it.

Genji came back with him, falling asleep in the chair next to his bed. His visor left behind. Eyes puffy and red from crying. Hanzo knew he was no better, and as he laid down, he looked at his brother again.

He did not deserve forgiveness. But then, Genji was never one for believing in the rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does have purpose and tie into the story, but, the abruptness might seem odd. Bare with me for a bit!


	14. Dawn

When the dragons rose from slumber, the sun had yet to rise, yet still they woke as a pair. Bleary eyed and looking their age. Still, it was a certain fondness now in the air, a general comfort of seeing one another's face. A soft smile passed between them as Genji walked over, sitting next to Hanzo, the dip in the bed making it easier for them to hold each other and embrace.

Hug it out. 

How foolish it was, how comforting. It was not skin to skin, but the warmth was there. There was still warmth in the dragons, in it's heart. The muscle that beat in time with a ever present shift of synthetic muscle and sinew for one, with even breaths for the other. They didn't talk nor speak of what had happened, but an understanding was shared.   
They hurt.  
They suffered.

It was not healed, these wounds between them, but it was a start. It was a cleansing of an open wound left too long to fester. Drained of dead cells, the new growth would come in time and eventually it would heal. Scar, but heal.  
Scars showed one had survived, that they endured and would carry on. Dragons did not scar easily, and many wounds could take years to heal but then?  
Genji was never one for rules.

Hanzo supposed it was a trait they shared he mused as feet took him to the communal kitchen. The rice cooker filled he worked on making a true traditional breakfast for himself. The first he would make since he'd arrived so many months ago. He did not expect Genji to follow him as a shadow. To have him join him in the act of eating. Hanzo felt a twinge of apprehension to the thought. Then like water, his brother flowed near him, next to him. A presence that was familiar and comforting while foreign at the same time. 

"Do you want me to make the eggs?" Genji asked, stepping beside him, already holding a bowl and chopsticks, eggs unbroken and space cleared so he might aid his sibling.   
Hanzo smiled in the way Genji understood. A small uptick in his mouth followed by a nod. The breath sucked in didn't pass Hanzo's notice and the grin on Genji's face was genuine as it was wide, the man quickly breaking eggs and casting their shells away before briskly whisking to beat the yolk and whites into a fluffy texture with few bubbles. 

A square pan, oil coated, the hiss of steam and crackle of the thin layer of egg was a pleasing sound. It reminded Hanzo of mornings long past, long forgotten. The pair making breakfast for themselves. Ushering out the family cooks. Wanting to do it themselves. A freedom. A way to control some aspect of their lives on their own terms.   
Rebellion.

Reconciliation. 

Miso into water. Tofu cut into squares. Fish put to a small pan and fried.   
"Two more plates I think." Genji hummed, looking over, putting on his faceplate, making difficult to decipher his expression past his voice.  
"Two more?"  
"For Miss Song and Miss Zhou. I am sure they would enjoy a nice breakfast that is not-" He hummed.   
Hanzo picked up on it. Genji was polite even when no one was around to hear them.  
"European or American centric." Hanzo spoke, tone clearly implicating just what he thought of the nigh constant eggs, sausages and pancakes the majority of the crew were so fond to deem 'breakfast' , (the tune of old country songs in the air whistled with jovial highs. The scent of cigarillos lingering around the coffee pot). 

"Precisely. Rice and a few other things do not make a good meal." Genji's voice lit, pleased that Hanzo had understood. Hanzo almost wanted to chastise Genji. Of course he knew that they would have to mend but they were not strangers.   
Yet time displaced them.  
Their last encounter before Overwatch was clouded by regrets. By anger. By grief.

It was frustrating to feel like they had to relearn to be brothers but-  
But.

Brothers. 

They were not islands. 

They were dragons.  
Dragons do not forget kin.  
(Yet it was not what he wanted. He wanted this but not this. Something more. Something else. Someone else.)

By the time their cooking was done, a few had filtered in, Hana and Mei among them. McCree still had yet to arrive, so it was Reinhart to fill the room with noise. Hanzo flinched at the large man's sudden cheer to see him present, yet Genji deftly stepped between them, diverting the German's attention to making 'the usual flair'.

"My brother and I were feeling a bit nostalgic. We thought you both would like something a bit.. closer to home than normal as we did." Hanzo didn't miss the inflection in tone. Genji had not wanted to offend. Korean and Chinese breakfasts were not the same as Japanese. Yet both women looked excited at the modest meal before them.  
"You did this? For- for us?" Mei's English was also most bird like Hanzo realized. Twittering and easily filled with happiness.   
(The fox was rough at the edges, yet melodic and soothing. A balm on one's mind in the low drawl over vowels and twang of consonants).   
"Woah! You did this?" Hana in contrast spoke quickly, her words coming like bubbles. Each one filled with energy and explosive in emotion.   
"Me and Hanzo yes. It was.." Genji stopped, headed turned to Hanzo.   
"Nice! Didn't know you both could cook. Then again, I didn't know Shimada-san liked anything aside from his bow." Hana snickered at his expense however he didn't feel upset.  
It was embarrassing but not unpleasant. She was friendly, her tone holding and air of playful fondness and enthusiasm. Her targeting was innocent. It was-  
She was like Genji in his youth. Playful and free of worries on her sleeve. Her woes kept to her heart. She was not a dragon but he felt a sudden fondness for her. She was a warrior, he knew that seen that, yet still she was bright. She was hopeful. Like Genji so long ago. No wonder his brother had thought of her, would gravitate to her.  
"I enjoy making myself breakfast. It was Genji's idea to prepare more." Hanzo deflected still, feeling the women's eyes on him as if they judged.  
"He is being modest, we did this."

We, Genji was placing the emphasis on the fact they had worked together. Hanzo noticed, as did the women a look of sudden awareness crossing their features. Two could play at his brother's game.  
"I am starting to wonder Genji, if you had a motive for having me assist you." Hanzo fired back.

It was enough to make Genji stop and look back at him.  
"Wha-"  
"I remember that when we have made breakfast previously with the intent to share it was to impress a few girls." There was a sudden sputtering. Genji actually recoiled as if struck and Hanzo could hardly help the smirk that tugged on his lips.  
"He's SMILING!" Hana's shout had everyone jump in the room, Genji included.  
It all fell apart from there.

Hana's hands were too quick and nimble, Hanzo barely saw the camera shoved away before he watched Hana shake Mei like the woman was in a daze.  
"I knew it! So Genji makes breakfast for girls often eh? Eh?" A litany of Korean came out and both brothers were left confused while Hana's sudden change back and forth of exuberance and carefully targeted words cut them both.

To Hanzo she asked if his smile meant that he'd join them more at meals. Genji was subjected to what Hanzo could only guess was teasing.  
That did nothing to stop miss Mei from blushing and humbly trying to eat her breakfast in peace.

In the end, Hana calmed after Genji flustered and said it was not like that he just wanted to be nice and he was not interested in them in that way though they were both very beautiful he just was not 'looking' as he put it.

Hanzo snorted and muttered that it had never stopped him before, which made the Korean MEKA pilot fall into a fit of giggling. Warmth blossomed in him. A sense of pride at their welcome. Genuine. Honest. Hana Song and Mei-ling Zhou. One was nimble like the hare, her mascot. The other was shy and delicate, too much like a mouse yet so clever he couldn't help but admire her work from afar.

The Dragon realized as he ate, that he couldn't remember the last time he felt like that. Comfortable. He hardly knew these people, even after having spent months working alongside them, fighting with them- he was a stranger.

Now?  
Now the dragon looked at them as they filtered in and let himself relax marginally. Coils loosened, they noticed when he left, said goodbye and invited him back. 

It was only when the Dragon was back in it's domain, bow in hand that it realized something.   
McCree had not shown for breakfast.

Suddenly a wave of melancholy pounded into him, and he felt himself drawing inward once more. He was pathetic. Disgusting. He just had breakfast with his brother for the first time in years. He smiled. He felt happy. Yet when he thought of another man he wanted that man there. The knowledge pounded against his gut like a fist.

How sick and twisted of the mind was he that after the first happy memory he had created was tarnished by his want for another? His impure and base lust?

Hanzo left his bow in his room, retreating to the rooftops.

The sake tasted better when drunk warm under the morning sun.


	15. Wounded

An empty man walked in front of him. Spurs had been left behind, (his normal jovial gait reduced to a soldier's stride. Heel-toe, heel-toe, the man gone from unpredictable wildcard to obedient orderly), the boots clicked on linoleum with a loudness that was only due to the echo of an otherwise empty hall. 

T-minus 16 hours until they'd arrive. Alaska. Omnics infected by rogue program of unknown origins at an oil rig. Shipped originally from Russia they were suspected to be swapped out for the repair units that were supposed to be fixing issues on the rig. Winston was staying behind to run diagnostics and do backend data mining to uncover clues and solve mysteries that no one asked questions too. 

Lena flew the plane. Satya would place choke points on the oil rig. Reinhardt was to defend them as they'd make headway into the main building. It was all very logical. But the dragon did not feel at ease. It was coiled tight, calws digging into it's skin as it sat near the fox who no longer held fire.

The fox was naught but smoldering embers now. Dull. Muted. It's heat given so rarely it was almost like it had lost all warmth. 

His face was sharp with his beard now neatly trimmed and shaven. Eyes hallow and pointed forward, not flickering over with the soft honey gold that was warm and once made the dragon lick his lips, wondering how the fox might taste. Now they were just eyes. Focused forward, seeing only what stood before them on the battlefield as they landed under the cries to go forth.

To obtain a victory.

Omnics that clattered like shell casings. Clack clack clack went the gold and bronze hollow tubes as they fell to cement and pavement. Dull thuds of bodies as they hit the earth. Metal or flesh, the sound was almost the same. The only difference lay in the final sounds they made as their lifeblood began to pour out. Rich deep red or an oily slick black. The whirl of servo motors and gears or the heavy exhale of air from muscle and sinew. They were not so different then, even if he thought different. Knew different.

Perhaps it was the knowledge, the fear of what sound a smaller dragon trapped in a metal shell might make that had Hanzo dwelling on the fallen bodies. Empty shells and casings. The man who walked like a soldier and shot with a near inhuman precision. 

A fox trapped in cold iron and held naught but embers, the sun stolen from it's eyes.

Two hours.

His quiver had been depleted twice. Refilled as they pushed forward, pulling arrows from corpses. The slumped forms of everyday officers who'd been there before them. Before the team of misfits, the pack of scavengers seeking glory and to right wrongs of a world rife with corruption and decay.

Every infected omnic was 'decommissioned' they said.  
Killed.  
A polite world that was more palatable.  
Overwatch was victorious. 

So why then as they boarded the plane, did the dragon look at the fox and feel like he was worse off than he'd been before they left?

At the base, the dragon didn't have to wonder long. The scent of smoke, tobacco, the hint of leather and musk. A fox's silent steps behind him as they went to the range, weapons in hand. Routine. Cleaning their gear post mission.  
(To clean flesh after intercourse, soft hands and hot water over their skin. To relax and wash himself in the scent of the other and let in linger into the morning. Dreams never voiced, never dwelled on past their conception.)

"Howdy." Gone was that gentle drawl, the twang of consonants. Now it was horse, gravel over stone. The fox's serape covered metal limb, pulled tight to his body, defensive and guarded. The fox had part of itself devoured and cast aside. It remembered the pain and was acting accordingly. But the dragon also knew what others would see.  
The fox was not acting as a fox should. The illusion was gone. 

The fox was wounded and it was trying to heal. Yet as Hanzo looked at McCree he couldn't help but see the raw wounds. Like gaping open sores, McCree avoided eye contact. His shoulders slouched. He moved with methodical slowness. He chose to omit spurs which he once wore with enthusiasm. His smile was hallow and his actions only those of muscle memory.

The dragon had found it's brother.

It had devoured a fox.

Now it was looking upon the ghost of who it had slain and was wondering why it remained. Why did it linger so near? Why did it insist on inflicting what obviously caused it pain by sheer proximity? It suffered the rejection, the bite of a dragon's maw and the heat of it's burning anger and fury.

"Is there a purpose to you following me Agent McCree?" Hanzo spoke, doing his best to not betray the regret. The longing in his chest. The want he felt. To hold the fox. To sooth it, kiss him. Heal the wounds he had caused. Wounds the fox did not deserve.  
"Nah, not following. Jus' left my kit here. Won't be bothern' ya none." It was truth, the small satchel picked up and slung over the American's shoulder. There was a pause between them as brown eyes met honey gold. Dull and muted. Hanzo could see himself in McCree's face. Lines etched into skin with an agonizing familiarity. Despair. 

A wish for something they could never possess.

"Good." Hanzo looked away, his own kit not too far off.  
"I uh-" McCree remained where he was, and when Hanzo looked back over his shoulder at the man he saw then the fox trying. Trying to reach out. To mend what was broken between them. To offer another part of itself, even after it had it's heart devoured and burned away.  
"You were good." Hanzo blinked, body turning to face McCree.  
"I-aw shit. Sorry. I'll jus-" McCree spun suddenly, darting out of the room, the click of boots echoing down the hall at a hurried pace. 

Hanzo's jaw clenched as he tried to say what he longed to say. To touch the fox. To see if there was more than embers that remained.

He loved Jesse McCree.  
And he was the cause of the man's suffering.

The reality of that knowledge stung worse than any gunshot wound, and as he cleaned his weapon, Hanzo bitterly resented the man he'd fallen for. It was his own fault for trusting Hanzo. For wanting Hanzo. He should have been smart, never looked to a dragon. 

Kitsunes and Dragons did not mix. Illusions and lies to beings of truth and Realities. 

Still.

Still.

Hanzo dreamed that night of dancing under a Santa Fe sun with fire and fur in his arms, and the taste of tobacco on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my pal NoirSongbird   
> I got u fam.  
> Sad McCree on the way


	16. Truth

No one says anything about the state of the fox.

He is hurt and he must heal yet to any who had any skills of observation, they'd know. It was Hanzo's fault. Hanzo had begun to heal the wounds upon Genji, at the cost of McCree. It was a barbaric trade off. A sibling was not a stranger, and it was no one place to question his actions. No one dared to face the dragon.

None, save another dragon who had nothing to lose anymore, save pride. 

It was a Wednesday, 30 for the highs (in Celsius. Not Fahrenheit which was the foolish system used by the fox and his fellow Americans. A foolish system for a foolish man with an even more foolish style that represented his home.) with a 17% chance of rain with low humidity. The base was running with air conditioning yet so near the coast the salt air and moisture had the dehumidifiers running on high. It caused a distinct dull tone that echoed in the rooms. Mechanical and monotonous, it ebbed into white noise unless one was trying to block it out, to find peace and calm and harmony.

Things that evaded the dragon day in and day out. 

He couldn't help it he reasoned with himself. He saw the fox daily. Slinking about, a shy smile sent his way trying to be friendly. Try to hid the tender sores and fresh wounds he'd make with each encounter.   
"You would do well to desist your attempts at familiarity."  
"And here I thought you could not be a fool yet again."  
"Do you ever cease your meaningless prattle?"  
"If you are done cowman, some of us have actual practice scheduled."

Small barbs, stabs at nothing but air and pride. Hanzo was going for blood each time, like a dull knife sawing at raw flesh, he was killing McCree and he saw it happening each day. Each day the small getting smaller and those bright honey brown eyes fading. Looking more and more like soil. Barren rock and earth. Void of sunlight. Of that fire that had made the Dagon's belly coil and long to taste tan flesh.

Yet before Hanzo saw McCree that day, he woke like any other. Made his breakfast and sat alongside Hana, humming soft replies to her hyper active talk of her latest stream and game score. He only spoke to remind her to take a drink of her tea so she did not choke on the mouthful of rice. He found her endearing, slipping her the last mochi cake before Lena could arrive and claim it for herself. The British woman finding the sticky sweet just as addictive as her peers.  
No.  
That morning's new normalcy, that mornings gentle lull of Hanzo feeling welcome ended when Genji stood in the door way. Immobile, gaze fixed on Hanzo before he walked away.

Unspoken words between them, body language was easy enough to read, even without his training. Genji was wanting to discuss something important, and was not pleased with whatever topic it was. The Crossed arms, the shoulders held back, chin up, feet apart not leaning towards the doorframe. Rigid. Genji was if Hanzo could hazard a guess, angry, though over what he had not a clue. They had spoken, mended more than Hanzo had ever thought possible, (laughter before tears. Jokes of their childhood, antics they had played as boys revisited as men. How much had time changed them, yet how much remained unchanged would be a mystery they could not solve alone). 

Genji led the way, having waited for Hanzo to end the routine of putting dishes into the dishwasher, of reminding Hana to chew her food before talking and giving Mei a small smile as their silent greeting. 

The steps of two grown men, trained in silence suddenly seemed loud to Hanzo's ears and the dragon in him roused from it's slumber, wary. They had not quarreled. They had no reason to. Perhaps he had been wrong of Genji's kindness, of his sibling's forgiveness. Logic told him no, after so many months this could not be the case. To what purpose would Genji have to lash out over the past when he had so many chances for vengeance? For justice? 

Their walk ended with them outside the base. Far away enough that Athena could not record them the elder dragon noted. Far from microphones and cameras and allies.  
Seclusion.  
Privacy.  
Hanzo stood, arm crossing and becoming as his brother had been. Stoic, betraying as much of nothing as he could.  
It did not fool Genji however. Dragons were honest and truthful, and his brother saw through his facade with ease.

"Do you hate him that much?" Genji's voice was sharp. Synthetic vocal chords and mask making it more pitched, noticeably strained and restrained. At first Hanzo did not understand the words, then realized why as Genji repeated himself.  
This time in their native tongue.

"Do You hate him?" Demanding of an answer this was a sharp change from the Genji of the past, who might demand but would slink away when ignored. This was a dragon who'd grown wiser. Stronger. This was the dragon his brother had become.

A dragon who sought answers and would fight for them. Part of him was proud to see his brother in such a way. Another part of him feared this change, because Hanzo knew the growing dread of reality between them.  
No more secrets. No more safety. Genji would see it. Genji could see it. So Hanzo suddenly realized as they stood, far from any other agent of Overwatch, that he would have to lie. Lie and pray that the younger Dragon could not smell the bitterness in his words. The sour taste of false faces and rancid, rotten truth that was him.

The dragon who was unworthy of a kitsune's cleverness. A fox's fire. 

"And if I do?" Hanzo rolled his shoulders back, pretending that it was obvious he simply hated McCree on Premise. They had nothing alike as far as Hanzo was concerned. There was nothing to like about the kitsune.   
Genji removed his mask. There was to be truth between them. There was a fire in his brother's eyes.   
Anger Hanzo recgonized. Though it remained a mystery as to why. McCree was just an ally to Genji. Unless-

Unless a fox was more than a simple fox to a dragon.  
Unless the fox had tasted dragon once before.  
Unless a dragon once coveted the fox and now it's fox was wounded by another. Spurned by the fox for another, only for it to have been spurned in kind.  
Dragons do not share. They do not give up that which is theirs. They love.  
Fiercely.  
Passionately.  
With all they are.

"He is only an ally. I have not jeopardized-"  
"How dare you." Genji's words cut the air as rage flicked over his frame. Muscles and body tense. Tone implicating that passion. That devotion.  
The younger dragon loved the fox.  
Hanzo felt weight drop in the pit of his stomach.   
Disgust.  
He lusted over his brother's past flame. His brother's fox.  
The fox who has sought him. Who-  
That weight twisted and became a rage of it's own.   
Lying fox.  
Cheating fox.  
Clever fox.  
Greedy Fox.  
Handsome fox.

"He is my friend and you-" Genji moved forward and Hanzo stood still. the dragon under his skin was ready to fight. Be it is brother, or the fox. A fox who he would cut for this mockery. This lie and trickery and he had fallen for it.

He'd fallen for the trick yet again.  
Sorrow. Rage dissolved into searing agony. He had fallen for the illusion. The charm of the fox. Handsome face and sweet words. Kindness and asking for nothing but company. Silence and a smile. A joke of phrases he did not know. A man who laughed with all his soul each time and shone brighter than sunlight.

"A friend?" Hanzo shot back, his own rage exposed in his tone. "I am sorry that I am not fond of your friends. I never have been fond of their ilk."   
It was enough.

The look that crossed Genji's face said more than words ever could. No one else knew Hanzo's agonies. Knew Hanzo's sorrows and sufferings. No one would ever know. No one could ever know how twisted and depraved and perverse the dragon was.

No one else but Genji would understand what Hanzo had meant.  
That he had never cared for Genji's lovers. For those Genji liked who Hanzo saw for what they were. people who used the Shimada connection, who used Genji's aloof nature to benefit themselves. Things Genji allowed because it was as close to freedom and true friendship as he could have.

 

"You think- Brother. Brother no." Genji looked pained. It infuriated him. How dare his brother pity him? How dare Genji deny his own heart. It was a trick. They had been used by the fox. They had been lied to. It was a Kitsune. A lying, conniving, using, greedy fox. It was not to be trusted.

"He is a true friend. My first friend." It was a gentle tone. Sincerity. There was truth, and Hanzo did not want to hear it.  
"I wanted to know why you scorned him but I feel I don't have to ask do I?"

Hanzo was done. He would hear no more of this. The fox was not worth his time. Genji, the dragon of his blood, could tend to a fox's flame.   
He was Hanzo. A storm. Thunder and lightning and rain. He was that which would turn fire to smoke. Who would destroy fire.  
Would destroy the fox for what it had done to him.  
"Don't you dare walk away from me Hanzo." A command. Dragons were not commanded. Not even by siblings.  
"Hanzo!" He kept walking, anger and shame.  
He was rotten, broken, disgusting, putrid, vile, shameful, disgraceful, perverse, ugly. 

"He _loves_ you Hanzo!" That word burned him. It made him stumble, his breath stolen under the gaze of the sun and feel himself go weak. This was a fox's work.  
A Kitsune's magic.  
"He isn't like the others. **This is not the clan**." Genji was closing distance and Hanzo remained still again, back turned. His mind screaming at him to move.  
Vunerable.  
He'd been made vulnerable by a man, (handsome, clever, funny, kind, perfect), who was not even there.

"He loves you, I swear it. There is no shame in-"  
"Then what is it if not shameful?" Hanzo yelled, Swinging his arm back, pushing his brother away.  
"These feelings are twisted and unnatural. Even so-" He hesitated. Genji just stared, eyes wide and searching but for what Hanzo didn't know.  
"Even so-"   
Hanzo walked back to the base.

Genji did not try to stop him a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it. The revelation. I want to really thank everyone for their comments and kudos, they really make me smile and help fuel my love for that sweet angsty McHanzo. Speaking of which, I've decided I'll be taking minor requests on my tumblr for prompts, McHanzo ship or other as I need more writing exercises that aren't my personal junk. My tumblr is StolenVampires, (wow so sneaky), and I'll also be holding a vote on the story's end. More info on that in the coming chapters. But again, I'd like to thank everyone for their support and for bearing with me so far on the wild ride of Masks.


	17. Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there is smoke, there is a fire

He was doomed he thought, to spend the night alone. Cold, yet burning. The room was below 50 in his attempts to stave off the heat of shame. The fires of his sin. Yet in the cold room he sweat and bit his knuckle to muffle the sobs that shook his body. He wanted it so badly. He had wanted so much to think he might have a chance, that they could be, that he could become a 'we'. That the I could become an 'us'. 

How many years alone? Touch was alien. Lovers never slipped to his bed. Heated glances met with detached looks that protected himself. No learned in a dozen different languages. A no that was learned in ways without words. A no that was made with bite and aimed to rip away feeling, to slaughter emotions under talons unrelenting. The no from the dragon- absolute. Unmoving, firm, resolute.   
Right.

He had been right to walk away. They would have fought again, him and Genji. Fought over a fox who was dying. Who had swallowed the sun and now the sun had burnt itself out. The sun inside the fox had been smothered by the dragon's storm. Fire drowned by the rain that was the dragon washing it's hands of the fox and his lies, his illusions.

 

Hanzo touched his pillow and cursed. It was hot like the rest of him. No cool side, the sheets and covers cast off as he shook on the bed, wanting rest, wanting to close his eyes and not see the faces of his sibling. Genji's look of knowing. Understanding. Hanzo couldn't lie to himself. He wanted to think it pity, but he knew better. Genji knew better. Genji was a being that loved, forgave. Genji was a dragon who would see a seedling grow into the magnificent cherry blossom. 

Hanzo was the one who would uproot it, because there was no need for the beauty of pink petals. There was no use for a tree that bore no fruit. A tree for the sake of being a tree was good for only kindling.   
Genji had looked at Hanzo the same way when he'd found Hanzo years ago. A red mark upon his face after being confronted by their father about his heart and the boy he once loved. Understanding and knowing there was nothing Genji could say or do to heal the wound that was not on the skin. There was no I am sorry or let me help. Just blessed silence.

Looking back, Hanzo knew it was helplessness. The want to heal, to solve all the problems between them, in their lives. Genji had been the free sparrow. Able to dream, to hope for a future. Hanzo had been stripped bare, molded, shaped into who he would see now in the mirror; he made his way to the bathroom, wanting to not feel trapped in the confines of his room. Rrestless. Down the hall, shaking, eyes red, sweat rolled down his bare back; He was vaguely aware he was in naught by sweat soaked gym shorts. 

Cold splashes of water to his face. Slow labored breaths, he tried to fight back the tears as hands gripped cool white porcelain. In through the nose, held for a few seconds, out through the mouth. Repetition. His heart calmed, the air felt cooler. Looking at himself again he noted how he need a shave. And a shower. He didn't care to go back and get a change of clothes. A rinse would do. Anything to cool his skin, to wash away the heat of shame. The fire of a lust he had for a man who he said he hated. Who he loved and no one knew the depth of.

None save the dragon. None save the only one who would carry their sibling's secret to the grave. The one who no matter how cruel Hanzo had been in their youth, had never held it over him, never used it against him.   
Genji deserved a better brother. 

The shower was cold, and after a few seconds Hanzo shook and shivered. Too hot, too cold. There was no peace, no middle ground. He would be caught one way or another. To burn in his shame and his lust, or to freeze alone and unfeeling. A choice between two agonies.

He went to the shooting range.

bare feet on cold tile didn't bother him. He felt no shame as he dripped water behind him. It would dry by morning. He would shoot his suffering away. Line his shot, draw the bowstring, tight, coiled and ready and then-  
Swish.

The sound of the door opening, the click of a gun barrel twisting to the next bullet.

He stood there, hat off, hair wild and unrully. Shirt open and tan skin exposed, sleeves rolled up. Jeans and dark leather boots- Old and worn, the front scuffed and too far gone to be buffed. The scent of tobacco in the air. Smoke but no flame. It came from an ashtray by his side. Gloves to protect, to mimic grip for feild work. The fingertips were broken in, not yet worn down. Hard leather beaten soft from use. Lips parted, eyes focused on a single point. A glittering halo of gold and red hues around him- the sun of the Santa Fe, a heat that wave in a rushing wave. Fire in the eye of grey gone red. The dragon froze as he watched the man become something else. Watched the rays of sunlight fanned behind him like waves. Swaying in air- tails of foxfire mixing with the lingering tendrils of smoke. 

Bang.

The echo of the gunshot was louder than anything Hanzo had heard before. It was like the bell of a church calling mass. Clear. Loud. It woke you up, reminded you to pray, that the gods were watching, that you were being judged each second for your actions and you would answer to all your mistakes. 

Four steps before the fox noticed the dragon. Light catching of black hair. Reflecting off of brown eyes. A blue and gold tattoo swirling to life with no direction. No arrow to guide it. Hanzo felt them coiled, ready to fired. To consume, devour, destroy.

Grey eyes looked at him, lost and confused. A face of innocence. The face of a fox that was not a kitsune. Not clever and wild and reckless. The face of a man who was 37 years old, worn from time spend on the road running from bounty hunters, crimes laid at his feet he'd never committed. A man who sang softly in Spanish when he thought he was alone, who smoked behind the mess hall to avoid Angela's scolding. A simple man who liked rice with egg and a touch of ketchup and would secretly steal natto from the fridge to Genji's chagrin. The man who laughed with his entire being, who fought with their leaders to see that they would not be walking into traps, who had fought tooth and nail against tactics from the era behind them. To never again let the history that had destroyed them once be repeated. A man so passionate he made you smile without even trying.

Jesse McCree was an innocent man who has wanted to know Hanzo, to reach out and maybe have the 'I' become 'us'. To have the 'he' become 'we'   
A man who saw something in him, in Hanzo -sinful, corrupt, defiled, disgusting, murdering, cruel, awful, rotten, vile, repulsive, _broken_ \- worthy.

The look was gone as soon as it had come, and yet there remained silence as Jesse looked away, reloading his gun. Asking no questions. He had been silenced by the dragon. Denied and rejected and refused. 

Dragons are fickle.  
Dragons are passionate.  
Dragons love.

"Do you love me Jesse?"

Dragon fear.

Silence, time standing still as Hanzo felt neither heat nor cold on his skin. The dragons wrapped tighter around him, blue and gold shimmering like waves in the night that had caught the stars from the sky itself. A storm broken. Brief respite. 

Facing him with those grey eyes, Hanzo saw a man who he hurt, pain worn in his skin, in the tight lips, the drawn crease of his brow as the other worked to think and decipher a dragon's intentions.

"Even if I do, you don't love me. It an't right to burden you with my feelings." The sad laughter, one Hanzo knew all too well. It was the same self depreciating laugh he made when he denied himself. Denied the truth that was in front of his face.  
"I'll get over it in time. 'S not your fault, I misread ya. Sorry if I been making you worry. It won't affect the missions none."

Thinking of others before himself. Taking the blame for troubles not his own. For wounds he did nothing to deserve.   
Jesse was innocent.   
Jesse was hopeful of what could have been, but still was fighting to accept a truth that was false. Fake. A bitterness and lie born from him.

Dragons are impulsive.

Hanzo stepped closer. His ability to feel his body was gone. He was numb. the dragons rose in him, coiled, ready.

"I lied."   
Grey eyes blinked, widened. Pupils dilated as Jesse took a step back before Hanzo's hand fisted in the cotton flannel. He had run. So long, so far. Alone. Alone and cold and burning.   
"You are more than nothing to me Jesse McCree."

The world was cold and gray and numb.

"You have become **everything** to me."

The taste of the Santa Fe sun. Tobacco and mint. Fire and smoke. Coarse fur under his hands.  
The world was flickering at the edges in gold again, and the dragons for the first time in Hanzo life, were sated by more than blood.

For the first time, they knew peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in any update, but we're closing in on the home stretch. Still no beta b/c im lazy af


	18. Storms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there is thunder, there is lightning. Where there is lightning, there is rain.

It hurt.  
Everything hurt.  
It was punishment, this pain, this agony. This knowing.  
Rejection. Pain. Fury in stormy gray eyes wild with confusion and fear and conflict.

The stolen kiss in a room riddled with bullet shells. Hanzo had fired, the bowstrings of his heart wound tight, love notched like an arrow ready to fly. To be carried to his target, to the man who had given him a glimpse of what could be. Of what he might have in more than just stolen dreams.  
Jesse had tasted better than dreams. He tasted like sunshine. Like things untamed and wild and pure and earthy. (Tobacco and mint in his mouth- the scent of him that was incomparable to anything else, a spice born of age and passion that filled his nose.) Hands in the soft cotton shirt, Hanzo hadn't wanted to let go. Tight grip, pulling him down, weak legs that barely kept him standing as Hanzo lost himself to his dreams, to his hopes and feverish desires for the man he'd hurt so much, cut so deeply with a blade not in his hand but on his tongue. 

Jesse had kissed him back, gloves had been pulled away to tangle in wet black hair, holding the shorter man close as they gave into things denied. The heat of the fox filling the dragon with light, with warmth. Not the burning passions of a baseless lust. The kiss was admission. The kiss was damnation.

The kiss ended in tears and open wounds .  
The spell of hope, the dream faded as Hanzo saw the ruin of the dragon's fury firsthand.

"I- I want this." He was so pure, so kind, so loving and yet-  
"But you. Hanzo, they _know_ about me. If," he inhaled, the shaking began in Jesse's hands, fingers running though his hair, down the side of his face, " if we're going to do this they'll know. I can't lie to them. I don't know if-"  
Hanzo felt his soul bottom out, he felt the warmth fade, the sun vanish over the horizon and stars flicker and fade as the night sky became polluted with artificial light. Illusions reborn, familiar lies of what was, not of what is.  
"-I don't know if I could pretend we weren't real. I need to know, could you tell them, could they know?" The implication, the reality. Jesse was open, Jesse was free. He didn't hide behind a fake reality, a lie worn and wrapped around him for years until he swallowed it as a bitter necessity. He was a man who was not ashamed.

Hanzo felt the word die in his throat.  
Yes (He wanted to say)  
Yes (He should say)  
No (He should have lied)

The pain came again. Another wound etched into the fox by a dragon's talons. The sun and fire dying out behind grey eyes that held so much promise, so much hope.

"I figured but-" He smiled. A mask of peace, of knowing that they couldn't talk. It was moving too fast, it was too much. It was what they wanted, it was what the dreamed of. It was what could not be. What could never be. Not while Hanzo was the dragon. Not while the dragon remained bound in chains of cold iron will, locked in place for so long it had long stopped struggling.

"I'll wait for you Hanzo."

A kiss, so soft and tender and hopeful. Loving. A kiss meant for someone better. Someone who deserved Jesse, who could match the fox's cleverness, who could meet it's fire with equal passion, with flame that burned just as hot.

Jesse smiled and told him that he was done for the night and that if he wanted to use the facility he was free to do so. An off the cuff remark about his state of dress, and lingering look so full of longing and like that the gunslinger was gone.

 

Water dripped to the floor.

He didn't care.

No one saw him walk back to his room. The room was freezing cold. The bed like ice.

He didn't care.

He laid down, closed his eyes and dreams of nothing- the first dreamless night he'd had in so long. No Sante Fe sunlight. No more golds or reds. No more warmth, no more fire. No more smoke and tastes of mint on his tongue. Real. 

He didn't care.

 

Waking up, Hanzo felt hollow. Calm. He chosen this, chosen Jesse. Chosen so many things he couldn't have. Things he wasn't, shouldn't be allowed to have. Genji sent a text.  
'I love him'.  
He didn't care.

Genji came by with breakfast. Rice, egg, natto. Hanzo felt his stomach roll at the sight. Jesse liked breakfasts like this. He could hear him now, in memory. Laughing when Hana was surprised about that natto. Jesse had learned to love it because Genji had introduced him to it years ago. Jesse swallowing mouthfuls of rice like a child, going for seconds then putting in a disgusting amount of sauce into his bowl. Jesse looking up at him, across the room, eyes catching and a smile playing on his mouth.  
Genji set the bowl down, a gentle hand on his back and he pulled him close. It was such a simple gesture, intimate but detached. Metal was not flesh. It was warm but not the same. A reminder of his sins. His brother was here. His brother was comforting him over old wounds, old scars. Yet even now, he wasn't allowed to hold Genji. His brother. The one who cared and loved him and who he killed. The one who made him smile and feel accepted just a few morning past for the first time in months. 

Hanzo lied.  
He cared.  
He loved Jesse. He loved Jesse so much everything hurt. Jesse was a good man. Despite what the world said of him he was a good man who deserved someone open, someone honest. Someone who hadn't hurt him, lied to him. Jesse was flawed and human and clever and funny and kind and smart- (so smart Genji why did no one else see that about him?) - while Hanzo was nothing but a broken dragon.

He was a failure. He killed him. He left the clan. He ran away from his guilt, his sins. He came because he had nothing. He was nothing. He hadn't been able to say he was sorry. He was stupid and weak and perverted and disgusting and craven and-

"Human." Genji's voice was soft. He was running his hand down Hanzo's back.  
"You are only human." Sobs shook him to his core. Hanzo wanted to love Jesse. To tell him everything. About their family, about what their father had done. About why he was broken, why it hurt.  
Why he didn't know if he could face a world as anything but the dragon.

Genji listened in patient silence.

Genji left him when Hanzo had no tears left. When hunger gave way to emptiness and all that was left was routine. 

Fear trapped him as he saw the faces of comrades. Smiles, greetings. They saw. They asked. He shook his head and said he was fine, (he was not fine), no, he was just tired, he and Genji were... mending, (the scars remained. But they were healing. Healing was not a cure. but it was better). Thank you for your concern but really, he was fine. Yes, he would see them soon for the debrief on the mission.

McCree in the conference room. Mission coming up. Partners.  
"I'm your huckleberry." It was met with a scowl from instinct, from practiced reaction, from habit.  
"No, you are not." Hanzo shot back and only when he saw the look on McCree's face did he realize what he'd done. 

Too late.  
McCree smiled and laughed it off, but he saw the look in those brilliant storm gray eyes. He saw what he had done. 

There had been fire once inside the fox.  
Then the dragon had come, and smothered it's flame.  
There had been embers in the fox, glowing red, but nothing brilliant. Hidden but not gone, the fire lived.  
Then the dragon had called a gust of wind, smoke rose from ashes. Fire lingered, fire that could rise and crackled and consume them both given time. The fox could wait, it was not without patience. 

But then the dragon came a final time.

Rain clouds came with thunder. They washed away the fire. Smothered it until all heat was gone, until there was nothing left.

Everyone left the room, none the wiser. Until the only one left was Hanzo and McCree.

Spurs jingled as the cowboy walked to the doors, a faint whisper, and echo of a voice that had made Hanzo's heart flutter when they first met now broken.  
"I could have been."

Twin masks in place.  
An immoveable Dragon.  
A mischievous Fox.

No one would be the wiser to the corpses laid at each other's feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll fucking thought I was done didn't ya


	19. Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Gore and violence in this chapter.

Could have.  
Would have.

The world spins on a tilted axis and the polar ice caps melt and the world is at risk from a threat caused by mankind. Mei is talking to them yet her words fall on deaf ears. The low hum of the transport is white noise behind her chatter, and while Lucio nods and affirms the woman's talk, Hanzo wanted to yell at her to be silent even though he knows he liked her chatter. It's soft and happy even on such a morbid subject. He wants silence so he can ignore the heat of the man two seats down from him. The man who used to jangle his boots with a restless leg pre-mission. 

The leg is steady. The man can't smoke and Hanzo knows he must be craving. He hasn't lit up since well over 7 hours ago. McCree is always smoking as he's able. This is a change, a startling one, yet no one has noticed. No one has said anything.  
Laughter, Something Torbjorn said. Reinhart is slapping his knee and Lena joins in with others, even McCree is laughing. But Hanzo notices the hitch, the hollow influx of air and how the laugh only reaches sternum. Normally, McCree's laugh comes from his belly, deep and full. Right now is forced, echoing off of steel and chrome walls inside the transport. No one else notices, no one says anything. 

Hanzo folds his hand and leans down, forehead thumbs. Across from him, he hears the shift of Genji in his seat. Genji has noticed his unease, the slack posture. Hanzo fixes it immediately. Muscles tightening and pushing up with his arms just so. Genji remains silent and Hanzo thinks he will not be asked. It is not their first mission, but it is the first since they have begun to heal. No one questions Hanzo's silence, they know he is that was before missions, the type to think and gather his center before they arrive to battle with whatever it is they face. 

One hour, twenty-six minutes until arrival. It will be night when they arrive. Winston is on base, his voice coming from the speakers reminding them to avoid civilians, to use force if needed and that they face Talon. The words left unsaid ring in each of them as a wash of silence encompasses the jovial air that had been in the carrier moments before. Kill Talon. No prisoners. They couldn't afford weaknesses. They cannot afford kindness or mercy. It's McCree who breaks the silence, a joke about how after the mission, they'll have to take a snow day. It's been too long for half of them seeing the 'stuff' and they could use a nice change of scenery once they get rid of Talon. Winston balks, chides. Lucio agrees with McCree, as does Hana and Zarya. The eager voices of youth drown out the scientist and he gives them 'I'll think on it'.

Lucio calls McCree 'Eastwood' and says how he should have thought of that, Lucio has never really been in a snow covered place outside of a mission before. The team begins to tell the Brazilian of many snow fueled activities. McCree laughs that same hollow laugh but offers no further remarks or commentary. No one noticed the stark contrast to what is normally the most talkative man on base.

Something is wrong with McCree, and no one notices. No one says anything. 

 

Could have said something.  
Would have said something. 

They drop down and are greeted by city officials. Mongolian. A translator helps them understand the scope of what's happening. Train from Russia. Weapons and anti-Omnic gear. Military grade. Talon has locked off the next town and the train is stuck outside the city under military defense. It can't be moved until the city is cleared out. Civilians unaccounted for but there has been heavy gunfire at all hours. Video feeds show the worst of it. Anarchy, chaos. War crimes committed not just by the terrorist group but by the city's own people. Poverty hit hard here after the Omnic crisis. 

One image sticks in Hanzo's mind's eye. A man, obviously foreigner, is shoved against a wall, a rifle pushed against his groin. Hanzo knows what will happen, but he doesn't look away. The bullet goes up, ripping up organs and soft cell tissue before it exist the body cavity and enters the skull through the chin. Gore- but that's not why Hanzo noticed that man out of all the feeds. It was what the man was wearing. Rainbow flag patch on his jean coat.  
Brown eyes look to the side.  
McCree's eyes are fixed on the same screen. Clever fox. Smart fox. He would have seen it too. A look passes between them, the silent affirmation of the implication. This was why. This was what they fought.

The translator tells them the vantage points. A run down of the city. Cache drops. Back-up support. Zarya will be going with them. Lucio as well. A solid strike team. Headsets on. Com links active. They march out dutiful soldiers one by one, following the military units.

The infantry unit drops likes a row of wheat under the scythe. Death has not yet taken it's fill.

Gun fire, screaming, blood and gore. They navigate the streets by telecommunications. An officer at the military camp feeds them directions and locations. Block by block, they clash with Talon. Everyone with a gun is a threat. Even the woman who screams at him from her window, pistol in hand as they enter her apartment complex.  
Hanzo knows her words. She won't let them take her.

He is too late to stop her. Too slow to speak. The words die on his tongue as she slumps out of the window and falls two stories onto hard snow covered pavement. 

War is ugly. It is hell and here is where Hanzo feels most at home. Here he must act and do as he's told. Fill a role, do what he must and see a mission to it's end.

But Hanzo looks to the building. The place in the video feed. McCree enters first, a flash bang followed by gunshots. Hanzo walks by the door opening and sees the real thing. McCree is looking over a corpse, firing several rounds into the chest. A waste of ammunition. Zarya is behind him, Lucio coming to join as the military units push ahead.

Would have said something.  
Should have said something.

No one says anything. McCree has never wasted ammunition before, he's never sneered at his kills, never looked so detached yet so invested in killing before. It's in his eyes, in his stance. The way he holds his gun, close, metal hand lifted ready to fan the hammer at a moment's notice. Something is wrong with the gunslinger and it is obvious. Yet not a word is mentioned of it. They are in the heat of battle, they can talk of it later if they even bother to remember.

Later as they clear out a storefront, McCree kicks a man using the heel of his boot. The spur spinning golden bronze as it digs into flesh and McCree smiles.  
In a home he fans the hammer on a youth who threatened them with a rifle. Any hostiles are to be considered Talon. Even if they look like civilians. Those were the orders. McCree is muttering numbers as they march deeper into the city. Kill count.

Hanzo has 17 less.

The city is freed.  
Talon agents are fleeing and they get the orders from Winston. Pull out. Their job is done. They can't be seen lingering. The snow day will have to wait. McCree yells at Winston and that's when they all notice it. The mask has slipped. It was cracked and broken and only Hanzo seemed to notice.

Should have said something.  
Could have said anything.

McCree says he's not going to let Talon get away. Rash, he rushes into wilds with the military forces. All the agents give chase, Winston is calling into the headset. 

None of them know tracking. McCree is a fox. A mask worn so long is gone, cast down in front of them all as he grins and says it's like Blackwatch. It's nothing like what they know. They'll slow him down. With Talon, with Blackwatch, you can't hesitate. Cold, stale laughter. Ice fire.  
Fox fire. Wicked. Trickster. Illusion caster. Kitsune. A hunter- Hanzo freezes as McCree looks him dead in the eye.

Hanzo feels nothing like a dragon. He is the hare once more. This is the McCree that men fear. This is the man untamed and wild. This is the murderer who got a 60 million bounty on his head.  
" I've got unfinished business." But there is something in his word. The bite isn't there. They don't fill his eyes. The spark is gone. Something is wrong with McCree.

He vanishes like a fox. They're running out of time. Winston makes the call. McCree can be dealt with later. The UN is on it's way, they cant risk everyone for McCree.

Could have said anything.  
Would have said anything.

Hanzo will stay. McCree may be a man who can vanish, but Hanzo is man who can track. He is the assassin. Genji backs him. A cyborg would be noticed. Hanzo can blend. Avoid detection better out there. He will bring McCree back. Hanzo doesn't wait to hear Winston's approval. He has already started tracking. He knows McCree's gait. Boots in snow make it easy. His spurs leave distinct imprints. 

Follow the gunfire. Follow the scent of the desert sun and tobacco smoke. Farther and farther from the Talon agents. McCree is leaving he realizes. AWOL. Hanzo cannot believe it. Something else. Something deeply wrong. Something personal. Cold and brutal as the man without the mask. 

He stands over a cliff, a halo of reds and gold as his gun barrel points forward. Slowly, Hanzo sees it happen. Black mist. A storm over the horizon. Silent and it brings with it a wind that smells like ozone. Dragons crackle under Hanzo's skin. Dragons rise and swirl as bow string is pulled taught. 

Would have said anything.  
The pain blossoms deep in his chest then drops like a cold oppressive thing over his entire being. They crumple like paper dolls. The halo of gold and red is gone. Hanzo can't move. Pain is all around him. McCree is looking at him, melancholy, eyes wet and reflective, as he speaks in words Hanzo doesn't hear. 

Hanzo can only think of one thing as the last light at his vision fades in real time. He should have said it.

_I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final Chapter to drop on Halloween. Things ive learned though: Get a beta


	20. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End

The Endings for Masks have been posted under the 'series'. Fox for Jesse, Dragon for Hanzo respectively. Combination ending coming TBA


	21. Mortal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The curtains close.

All three endings have now been posted, after much delay. I want to thank everyone who has left kudos and comments and hope that everyone enjoys the combined ending as well as the two alternatives. 

May all your Ults be ready, your cool downs quick, heals up, and shields down.

-StolenVampires


End file.
